


Five times he cried, one time he did not

by tienye



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tienye/pseuds/tienye
Summary: He always was a big crier, he cried at anything and everything. But surprisingly, on one occasion, he isn't. He's calm and peaceful.





	Five times he cried, one time he did not

_aged 14_  
  
Pierre had cried before. He always had been a big crybaby, but now it seemed to be worse. His uncle had come to deliver the news he knew would have inevitably have been given soon.   
His Mama was dead. ‘Passed peacefully in her sleep’, he was told, that she suffered little in her final hours. But Pierre couldn’t think about her passing on peacefully; he was alone now. He felt alone. He felt a lot of things, but he felt a wave of saddening anger most of all. 

If God was so loving, why would he take her away? Why would he take her away and leave her son all alone? Why did have to be Mama?

Pierre didn’t remember how he’d been pulled into his uncle’s arms, but the sobs that racked his body didn’t seem to be stopping. He wanted to go and see her, but he didn’t have the will to move from the comforting hold he was in.

Not even of the age of 14, and his will to continue existing without Mama was already slipping away. He couldn’t do it without her now.

 

* * *

_aged 20_  
  


Ever since arriving back in Moscow, Pierre knew the visit would not bode well. The news of his father’s deteriorating health only confirmed his suspicions, too, keeping himself cooped up in his room to wait for news about him. If he was getting better, if he was worsening, any news would be good. 

Of course he had to be out of the house when he received news. Another stroke, said the letter, Anna Mikhailovna grasping his arm to lead him from the Rostov’s house with her dear boy Boris. In a way, Pierre was thankful she had decided to join him, even if he didn’t know her all that well. As much as he loved his cousins, he doubted he could handle them at such a time with their biting insults. 

After finally being allowed into his father’s room, partially due to Anna Mikhailovna barging past Katiche and Prince Vasily, the sight of his father in such a state was enough to bring tears to Pierre’s eyes.    
Hesitantly walking over to his bedside and hurriedly making the sign of the cross as others in the room did too, he realised this was the first time seeing the old Count in a long while. It had to have been years, at least. Years without seeing him, and he had to see his father on his deathbed. 

The ‘smile’ his father gave him after squeezing his hand was enough to bring the tears to his eyes again. All resentment Pierre had towards his father seemed to leave him. He couldn’t bring himself to abhor a man in such a condition, and the more Pierre rationalised with himself, the more he thought, and knew, his father was only doing what he thought was best. He had to have been, mustn't he? 

Begrudgingly, Pierre was taken back outside, sitting on one of the sofas as Anna Mikhailovna paced, her son Boris stood not too far away, Prince Vasily sat not too far from Pierre.   
Katiche exiting the room seemed to snap Anna Mikhailovna back to reality, her eyes widening as she saw the document folder tucked under her arms. Pierre paid little attention until he heard a “Pierre, come here, this concerns you”, instantly getting up without a clue of what to do. Both women seemed as if they could rip whatever Katiche was holding in half, with the tight grip they both had as they both tried to tug it from the other’s grasp. Prince Vasily tried to step in, but to no avail, the determination within the pair would not fade. 

It was only when Katiche’s sister burst into the room reprimanding them for leaving her alone with him as he passed on that Katiche let her grip on the folder drop, Anna Mikhailovna grinning as she picked it up and read the first letter within it, heading over to Pierre.

“This is your future here.” She’d said, handing the letter to Pierre.   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“You are Count Bezukhov now, my dear.” She explained, nodding to the letter. A letter of legitimacy, the old Count having made Pierre his legal son. 

This only brought more tears to Pierre’s eyes, though they stopped falling once Prince Vasily had reappeared, looking utterly broken.

Later on, once his father’s body had been taken by the undertakers, once he’d settled in his room in what was now  _ his _ house, Pierre fully allowed the tears to flow, sobs once again racking his body. 

He still hadn’t been able to fully cope with the death of a loved one. He’d still get the feelings of anger, resentment, and hurt towards whatever higher power kept picking off his family members, one by one.    
  
“For once can I just have a family?” He lamented through his sobs, speaking out to no-one in particular. 

It was all he’d wanted.

 

* * *

_aged 21_  
  


“Pierre?”   
  
“Hm?”   
  
Pierre looked up from the book he was reading, finding Andrei looking directly at him.   
  


“I did need to speak with you about something.”   
  
“Oh! Yes, of course!”

He had half forgotten that was the reason he’d called on Andrei, his dearest friend needed to speak with him. He knew he hadn’t been doing too well, especially after Lise’s death, Andrei still not coping exactly too well with it. Marya has been helping the best she could, helping Andrei raise his son, but Pierre knew it wasn’t enough for his dear friend. He did need Lise back. 

“I’ve been thinking. About Nikolay.” 

“Oh?” Pierre shut the book, placing it beside him as Andrei came to sit beside him.

“I know that Marya will take care of him, should anything happen to me, but should something happen to her...the person who I’d like to care for him is you, Pierre. Would you do the honour of being his godfather?” Andrei asked, a genuine smile appearing on his face.

Pierre didn’t know what to say. He just sat there, mouth agape in shock as tears began to slowly slip from his eyes. Without thinking, he took Andrei into his arms, hugging him close, managing to mutter “yes, yes I will” as he did.

He could only laugh then weep more as he heard Andrei let out a faint laugh before wrapping his arms around Pierre, returning the hug. 

 

* * *

_aged 22_  
  


He was a murderer, he was sure of it. He’d killed a man over his stupid jealousy that stemmed from a stupid note. It was stupid, the duel was stupid,  _ he _ was stupid. God, why couldn’t he have been the one to take the bullet? Why did it have to be Fedya?

His wife could still sense the bubbling anger he’d since buried deep down, it seeming as though she wanted to revive it with her remarks and shouts. Her refusal to leave him be to mourn and grieve over the man he’d possibly killed in peace.    
  
“With a husband like you, who wouldn’t want to take a lover?!” She’d screamed at him, angry tears filling his eyes as he finally turned back to her, her shouting carrying on.   
  
“He was a much better man than you! And you killed him!’   
  
“No!”   
  
“You killed him!”   
  
Pierre got himself up as she fled from the room, crocodile tears flowing from her own eyes, following after her.   
  
“Get out of my house!”

Hélène spun round to face him, her crocodile tears disappearing as anger overtook her face. 

“What?” She spat, glaring up to him.   
  
He stayed quiet for a moment, watching as several emotions passing over her face - worry, pity, hurt, upset - before she settled on smugness.   
  
“Fine, if you really want us to part.” She paused for a moment, sensing Pierre’s anger still evergrowing, before carrying on.   
“You’ll have to pay me a fortune, though.”   
  
That seemed to be his breaking point. She stepped back, this time fear overtaking her face as Pierre cleared off the nearest marble top table by him, holding it above his head, a scream erupting from her as he threw it a few feet in front of him.    
  
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”   
  
With that, she fled from the room, leaving Pierre staring at the vacant space she’d left, seething in his anger for a moment before it left him, grief hitting him square in the chest as it returned to him.   
  
Sobs overtook him as he slid himself down the wall, sitting on the floor, head in his hands as he let his tears fall.    
  
He had killed a man. A much greater man, he was a fool. He’d wished for no more death to surround him, and here he was causing someone else’s.    
  
_ What had he done? _

 

* * *

_ aged 27 _

Natasha did not look like herself anymore. She was the frail remains of the newly made woman he once new. She was so lifeless, so...discontent with existence. Now he truly knew how she felt when he was in the same boat. 

When she turned to him, she looked even less like the Natasha Rostova he once knew. Her eyes were lifeless, too, with deep dark bags hanging underneath them.    
Anatole needn’t have worried about Andrei finding him, if Pierre ever saw him again, he’d tear him limb from limb after seeing what he’d done to Natasha.    
  
“Pyotr Kirillovich.” She’d said as she’d smiled, the smile no longer as spirited as it once was, it was faint, distant, stiff.    
  
“It’s Pierre, Natasha.” He corrected, offering her a faint smile in return.    
  
She simply shook her head, looking away from him once more as she sat herself down.   
  
“Would you...would you tell your friend to forgive me? Please?” She almost begged, her voice wavering at her request.   
  
“I’ll tell him to forgive you. But he gave me your letters-”   
  
“I know that everything’s over between us. I just...feel so  _ tormented _ by all that I’ve done him. Please, please get him to forgive me.” Now she was begging, looking up to her old friend with tear-filled eyes, tears welling up in his own at the sight.   
  
“I-I will, I promise. I...I would like to know one thing, though. Did you...love...that scoundrel?”   
  
“Don’t call him that! I don’t...I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”   
  
She began to sob once more, getting up to face away for a moment, hesitating as she went to move closer to him.   
  
Pierre hadn’t known how it had happened, but suddenly, he was confessing his love to her. She truly deserved all the kindness in the world, and despite the fact he himself was not free, he would marry her if he could to prove that. She was still worthy, worthy of every good thing in the world. 

After he’d gotten out his half-serious proposal, Natasha’s tears seemingly stopped, a smile overtaking her. A true smile, not the cold, dead one she wore not just ten minutes ago. 

She cupped his one cheek, pressing her lips to his other, lingering for a moment, before turning and slowly walking from the room, leaving Pierre with a smile on his face.

He picked up his coat, pulling it back on, staying stood where he was for a moment, before heading out of the Rostov household, climbing into his sleigh with tears forming anew.   
  
“Where to now, Count?”    
  
Pierre paused for a moment, before finally answering.   
  
“Anywhere. Not home yet, take me anywhere, Mishka.” 

His driver looked back at him with a confused expression for a moment, before shaking his head as he laughed, setting off.   
  
Pierre leaned his head back, looking up to the sky, noticing the comet overhead. His mouth fell open, shock and wonder filling his soul, smiling widely the more he stared up to it, realising that his soul did feel full for the first time in a long time. Too long.   
  
Such a realisation brought a sob through his throat, waving Mishka’s concerned expression off, with a “I’m fine, don’t worry”, Mishka not seeming entirely too convinced. 

He was fine. It was happy tears now, not his usual ones created from his depression. He was truly happy, now.   
  


* * *

_aged 27_  
  
  
Pierre’s will to live had dropped in the last few hours. Platon wouldn’t have been too happy with him, especially after all it took to make Pierre happy in their predicament. But Platon wasn’t here, so Platon couldn’t exactly say much. 

The cold, the illness that was brewing within him, and no hope of escape drastically dwindled Pierre’s hope for survival, and that he was okay with. He’d close his eyes forever if he could, but the loud sound of gunfire shook him from his half tired state. 

Screaming men on horseback were storming the camp, with their sabers drawn, hacking at any Frenchman mad enough to get close to them. The French barely had any time to respond, half of them having been slaughtered before they’d picked up their guns. A few managed to fire shots, before being knocked down or killed themselves.    
Pierre had been half dragged underneath the nearest cart against his wishes. He half wanted to stay under there, slip into a forever sleep where he lay hidden, but half of him wanted to get out and stand up. Let something happen to him there.

It wasn’t until he saw a familiar face that he crawled out from underneath his cover, shouting the man’s name.   
  
“Dolokhov!”   
  
The man turned around, thrown off at the sight of his old friend.   
  
“Petrushka!” He shouted back, making his way over to Pierre, his eyes going wide as one more shot fired.   
  
“PETRUSHKA!” He shouted once more, breaking out into a run as Pierre dropped before him, clutching his side.   
  
He managed to pull Pierre into his lap once he’d knelt down beside him, applying pressure to the wound that leaked out blood.    
  
“No, they won’t kill you too, I won’t let them. You’re going to live, I swear it.” He firmly told him, his voice beginning to waver.   
  
It was the first time Pierre had seen Fedya like this, with tears in his eyes, on the verge of a breakdown. Fedya never had been one to cry, and the fact it was over him only made Pierre more confused.   
  
“It’s-it’s okay Fedya, I-I’m okay with this.”   
  
“I’m not, you stupid oaf! You’re going to fucking live, I command you-” Fedya couldn’t finish, sobs now racking over him.    
  
For the first time in his life, Pierre’s eyes didn’t fill with tears at the sight of someone else’s doing the same. No, he just simply smiled, one last grunt of pain leaving his throat, before he went limp, his eyes staring wide and lifeless.    
  
Fedya went quiet for a moment, searching for any sign of life on his old friend, before just pulling him closer, burying his head in his chest, silently crying into it. 

Why did He have to take Pierre? Of all people, why Pierre? 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I have taken bits from ~most~ W&P adaptations, don't @ me 
> 
> Love you lot!


End file.
